Piano Music Through the Window
by Phantasm1313
Summary: People CAN be rather rash when they are depressed. (Or, Landon makes a very stupid decision and Cyril goes after him)


At the Eighth Lagoon, a twig-thin man is bent over the kitchen counter. He prepares dinner for his absent boss, but, _my God, _he is useless. Hands trembling more than a leaf, he clutches the knife handle until his fingers turn ghostly pale. The vegetables he slides to the other side of the chopping board, slowly, uncertainly.

/Cyril will probably be home, tonight. And he…he needs me to make his dinner/

The boss will not carry on a conversation with Landon, or course. He'll storm in, all bloodied and battered, collapse onto a chair and dress his wounds while Landon looks on in grim silence. He never wants to talk to Landon, but that's all Landon wants him to do.

/I'm just his maid, a slave… worthless, disgusting, piece of GARBAGE Landon. Cyril treats me like dirt. And if he does, it must be for a reason. Cyril NEVER, no, not EVER, acts without a reason. Everything is calculated, I swear, I-it is/

And he begins to chop up the carrots, feeling like screaming, unshed tears sloshing around in his head. He hears a deafening buzzing sound, one that happens on the occasions that he's about to pass out. What a pathetic man, that Landon. So deep into the throes of depression that he's begun to lose his vision. It blurs at the edges; hot tears stream down his cheeks.

/My god, I whimper, my god! I'm sick of this darkness, of this world, of CYRIL! And as soon as the thought registers into my head, I gasp, and the static noises in my head screech to a halt. No, no. Not of Cyril. Never of Cyril. He is my hero- everything I've ever wanted to be… /

The knife is no longer in his hand. It is on the floor, abandoned and stained crimson. Landon shakes even more when he realizes that, in his delirium, he dropped it. And his other hand had been right under. Dizzy, he stares at the large cut on his hand and lets out a cry of terror.

/My blood it's, it's…on the floor, and, and, what? What do I do? D-do I clean it up? Bandages, I...bandages/

_Stupid_, bleeding Landon presses his wound against the thin fabric of his shirt, exiting the kitchen area and staggering towards an old wooden cabinet with all the supplies. His good hand he runs through his hair, shakily exhaling and wetting his chapped lips with his tongue-tip. He tastes old cigarettes on his breath and lips, and he groans.

/There aren't any more bandages, I realize, peering into the cabinet. He…He used them all, last time. And visions of Cyril more dead than alive flickered past my eyes, my stomach churning painfully/

When was the last time he'd smoked a cancer stick? Too long, he decides feverishly, and abandons the cabinet once it became clear that there was nothing of use in it. Landon's body throbs from head to toe, eyes wet and red-rimmed from the tears.

/I always t-thought that I'd be Cyril's best friend. But it's a lie, and, and… he never cared about me, not once, not ever. Why stay by his side blindly? It's not a smart move, and anyways… I look down at myself, cringe at the red splotches of life-liquid and make a decision/

There will be no more Landon.

With that thought circulating in him, he staggers out the door of the Eight Lagoon, cradling his hand like a child, body wracked in tremors. Landon was going to find a place to die.

A half-hour later, the boss entered their home. There was a crazed smile on his handsome face, one brought on by seeing and teasing his "Lady Petunia". But upon entering and not hearing Landon's usual energetic greeting, Cyril felt odd. The grin slid off his face and landed at his feet with a dull thud.

The only light in the whole house came from the small, inefficient candle placed next to the chopping board. Attracted to it like a moth, Cyril went over to it, expecting to find Landon caught in the act of sleeping on the job on the floor. He was met with an empty space and a warm pool of blood nipping at his shoes. What?

He instantly went into a state of alertness. Somebody had to be here, someone had to have hurt Landon… But there were no sounds, no quiet breaths, nobody else in the house. Cyril picked up his smile and placed it back on, however it appeared unnatural and odd.

The cigarettes he'd brought for Landon feel like an enormous weight in his pocket. He steadies his nerves with a quick swallow of an alcoholic drink and stands, arms crossed, in the puddle of blood. The idea that Landon beat off possible intruders is one he entertains for a minute. Still, even with that theory his disappearance lacks explanation.

His shoes nudge a knife on the floor as he moves towards the dining table. The hairs on the back of his necks raise, a shiver of excitement shooting up his spine. Landon was man, after all, and he could always take care of himself.

Or at least that is what Cyril thought, deluded into believing that Landon was the one who wielded the knife against the intruders.

But the minutes ticked by. Tense, silent, inchworm-like minutes where all he did was wait. Landon would return to the Eighth Lagoon, surely, and then Cyril could pour his frustration out on him. Didn't that MORON know he was Cyril's? That he BELONGED to Cyril? Obviously not, and that in itself made the wait all the more unbearable.

Little doubts, whispers of the mind, slithered in between his thoughts. _That was Landon's blood. He's gone for good. HE WAS DEAD._

The last murmuring jolted him out of any peace he'd managed to settle into. Cyril was, frankly, an assassin and a chronic liar. But that didn't mean that he was going to let anything happen to HIS henchman…

Cyril pocketed his blade, placed a hat on his head, and locked the door as he slipped outside and into the cool night air to begin his search.

He asked around for his subordinate, describing him as a red/orange-haired man who quite possibly had blood all over him. More often than not he pulled out the blade to gently coax information from the unwilling bystanders… but they'd be in more danger if they mislead Cyril than if they admitted they didn't know.

How long had Landon been gone? Hours? He could be anywhere in Melbourne, or even Australia! Or maybe Cyril was just a bit affected, though he was reluctant to admit it. He leaned up against a public house's entrance, fingering the sheathed dagger on his hip. People gave him curious glances as they entered or exited, and he was all too happy to give them his own twisted look in return.

And he began to wrack his brain for any place that Landon might go to, for whatever reason. He thought of when they were younger, Landon's interests and skills, painful memories of things that he'd hoped to smother… ultimately coming up with a blank. Except, Cyril knew of a time when he'd had a piano.

Not a fancy one; nothing of the sort. More as in a stolen, worn piano with various missing keys. Then, he saw Landon's unguarded, delighted smile as he'd sat down to play it for the very first time. It was the closest Cyril had come to giving his slave a present, albeit unknowingly.

It was really too bad that it'd broken down a few days later. Landon had loved it.

Cyril, taken aback, swore as the light went off. Turning to one of the Public House's patrons, he gripped him by the shirt collar and lifted him off the ground, gaze asphyxiating as he sneered, "Where's a man to find a piano in Melbourne?"

He ran at a breakneck speed, steamrolling over the streetgoers, clutching in his hand a crude map to the nearest Jazz Club. It was a stretch, he knew, but there was a buzzing in his ears, a trembling in his innards, compelling him on.

Horns, drums, and piano music assaulted Cyril's ears, louder and louder, until he was a mere two steps from the entrance. The song finalized with a trumpet's scream, and gradually, ever so slowly, eased into a bluesy piano and horn duet.

The place was expensively adorned, and probably cost a fortune to get into. This was how he'd decided that Landon must be somewhere outside here, if he was here at all, that is. With the trembling inside him growing harsher still, Cyril tossed the map on the floor and began to hunt for Landon.

/It's s'close. Not gonna last much long'r…/

He was slipping away, and the knowledge neither frightened nor gladdened him. Rather, his eyes were glassy, unfocused and unseeing. They may have well been closed, for all he could "see" was the music that floated through the windows. He gave a small, weak cough, pressing his profusely bleeding palm closer to his chest and struggling to find warmth.

Every harsh breath he gave materialized into an icy mist that only made him feel colder. And even now, upon deciding that he'd die, Landon thought of his boss. He wanted to die faster, get rid of the dull pain he lived with every day. "Life sucks," he choked out. It was almost as an afterthought that he said, aloud, "Cyril, I dun wanna die."

In that brief moment before he gave up, he saw Cyril run towards him, eyes so _involved_, that Landon gave a weak smile and shrunk back closer to the wall, unwilling to give out.

/NOW he cares…/

But the man was pleased, inside, and gave a soft sigh. Maybe he could hold on, just a bit longer.

When he found Landon, slumped under a window, bloodied and shivering, Cyril's pulse raced. He was furious, he was relieved, he was LIVID. Taking him in his arms and standing him upright against the wall, he fervently ripped off his own bandages. They were dried, and all he had, so he pressed them on his wound, as hard as he could.

"Landon, you _moron,_ what d'ya think you're doing…!" And he continued shouting, screaming, raving, all the while _so very afraid_ because Landon looked as though he were gazing into another world.

Cyril held him tightly, willing warmth into his frigid body, and prodding him gently on the face. "Stay with me!" he growled, and gave a shaky sigh when Landon seemed to come to. He gazed up at him, questioning, and assured Cyril with a strangely calm smile.

"I do matter," he whispered. Cyril, finding it difficult to answer, picked him up as best as he could to take him back.

But the light had left Landon's eyes.


End file.
